A Fleeting Image
by Sweet Dahlia
Summary: Andy finds herself approaching death quicker than she once thought she would. Silent Hill is equivalent to hell itself. She delves in with no choice, hoping for a chance of survival . . . will she make it? Or perish in the fiery pits of hell?


**A/N: ****Welcome. You've stepped into hell~**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.**

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><p>The brisk winter air made goose bumps ripple across my flesh as I stared out at the lake and its murky gray waters. My old Harley's grumpy rumble slowly faded as I turned the engine off, and climbed off the bike and nudged the rusted kickstand onto the concrete.<p>

"Hm. What a dump."

I tried to imagine my dad standing in this very spot, young and ready to embark on a life changing adventure . . . but I couldn't. He just seemed so frail and broken, too weak to accomplish something like finding a missing person—and one that had been missing for _four __years._Something must have altered him from that hero I use to think he was . . . to a worthless dead beat who kicked me out of my own damn house.

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><p>"Dad," I had said, as I sat down next to the old man watching his nightly Wheel of Fortune. "I—"<p>

"It's _Journey,_you idiot! I swear this guy has never heard good music!" Dad threw his arms up in frustration, all but screaming at the out of date television set. I cleared my throat, "Yeah—so dad, I was wondering—"

"You should go on this show Andy. You're a smart kid—just don't start dressin' like that Vanna White lady." He patted my shoulder with a gravely laugh, and returned to his trance-like state of watching the game show.

"Dad. I have a question." I finally was able to ask. I knew he was going to get angry, he always did. Every time I use to ask him . . . he'd scream at me telling me to 'mind my own damn business', and then send me off to my room. He couldn't do that to me anymore, since I was finally legally responsible for myself—and him. He had moved in with me about two months ago, and I'd been working up the courage to ask him since he arrived.

"Ask away, kiddo." He said gruffly, still not removing his eyes from the cracked, tiny screen that was my television; it took me a moment to reconcile my decision to bring up the subject.

I took a deep breath; I could do this.

"What happened when you were in Silent Hill?"

His entire body went rigid, and his icy blue eyes went cold with white rage as he turned to look at me. "Get out." Growled my father; slight irritation bubbled inside of me.

"You can't make me leave, this is my house. Just answer the que—"

"I said: _GET __OUT!__" _

"No! Why can't you just tell me?" I did my very best to keep my voice from rising, because no one could ever beat my dad in a screaming match.

"There are just some things you can't talk about. It's in the past, everything is over with!" He had arisen from his spot on the middle cushion, and was looming over me dangerously with his fist raised high in the air. "Leave now, or you'll make me do something that both of us will regret."

Tears of frustration were welling at the corners of my eyes, as I stood; I glowered up at my dad with resentment. "Do it." I growled stagnantly; part of me didn't want to believe my own father would do this to me, not after so many years of joyous laughter and bonding . . . but the other part . . . was very aware of the unstable side of him, that wouldn't hesitate to swing on his own blood.

He raised his fist, preparing to come down on my face—hard.

My father stood there for a moment, and his fist began to shake. His pupils dilated—it looked as if something had shifted in him, like he was fighting an animal that was working its way to the very surface. Yet, I still stood, rooted to my spot—

In the next moment, a heavy force had knocked me to my butt on the arm of my sofa, and an agonizing, throbbing sensation burned into my bicep. "Leave." He growled, before brooding off to the kitchen.

Rage seemed to consume my entire being, fighting its way to the very front for its spotlight; maybe it was a rash decision, probably one of the dumbest things I'd ever do in my entire life—

I was going to Silent Hill.

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><p>I was positive that the small building to my right was a restroom—considering the grotesque scent emanating from it—and the awful fact that a steady stream of vomit-green sewer water was pouring out of the doorway onto the cracked cement; an odd pull just below my belly button seemed to be beckoning me towards the disgusting sight. Apart of me wanted to turn away, as if a corpse would come tumbling out of the door . . . nothing but a bloody pile of pulsing, decayed flesh, eyes gorged out, lips sloppily sown together—<p>

A sudden, abrupt pain hit the back of my head with the force of a semi. It felt as if someone had grabbed me by the skin of my face and started bludgeoning the back of my head into a brick wall—the pain was so intense I thought that maybe I had been hit by a car; "Augh!" I moaned, stumbling just a bit as I gripped the back of my head tightly in my hands. "What . . . the . . . hell . . ." I croaked, as the pain started to fade away.

My mind felt like it was dense with fog, everything that had lingered before was now obscured by the white swirls of forgetfulness. I hadn't realized when the terrible ache had hit, that my knees had quaked from under me, and now there were rips on each leg of my jeans, and the edges were soaked with freshly drawn blood. The painful sting didn't disappear as I got to my feet, as I hoped it would. The jagged concrete must've done the trick, since most of it wasn't even sealed to the ground anymore. Random pieces of cement jutted out of the ground, leaving anyone prone to disaster.

After brushing off my pant legs and getting my fresh wounds use to the sting, I finally noticed that the sewer water flooding from the entrance of the restroom had settled down, and only small streams branched out from the large puddle that had strangely stopped in the middle of a flat part of the parking lot. I noted that the biggest stream of waste was flooding back into the restroom, moving through the crevices of the concrete, and vanished into the dark doorway. Curiosity infected my bloodstream as the puddle almost mechanically work its way back into the restroom, almost as if . . . someone was sucking it back in there with a vacuum. I bit my lip, contemplating my path: down the steps, towards Silent Hill, or into the restroom.

. . .

Minutes later, I found myself taking precarious steps towards the doorway. I couldn't see a thing from my point of view; the inside was totally obscured by the closest wall. I held my arms close to my sides, digging my hands deep into my jacket pockets. I wanted to resist the strange sensation that overcame me as I reached the dark doorway, but I couldn't find it in my joints to let go of this . . . feeling. The air had changed from cold to stagnant, and I broke out in a cold sweat; something was in there. I didn't know what it was . . . hell, I didn't even know if I _wanted _to know what it was.

I reached for the far wall, and quickly found a light switch. The light was blinding compared to the dull light outside.

I was met with a relatively normal bathroom—with the exception of being filthy. It was obviously a men's room, since there was a row of urinals lined up against the right wall, and the stalls were lined up against the left. There was a slope leading down to a drain in the middle of the cracked tile floor. I noticed that the very last bathroom stall had cleaning supplies spilling out of the broken stall door. The strange sensation faded to the back of my mind as I approached the stall blatantly, not really caring what was in there—

"AAH!"

I flew back, nearly slamming my head on the one of the urinals; there, hung a body suspended by rusted barbed wire that twisted around its limbs and head, then sunk deeply into its decaying flesh. It had no face, only black holes for eyes that seemed to eat away at the face, and if there was a mouth and a nose, it was totally obscured by the heavy use of barbwire twisting tightly around the head.

I muffled my sobs with my hand, and sat there. I was paralyzed with terror. Horror had freshly bloomed in my stomach with the flourishing feeling of grim silence. I noticed a small, reflective object, and blinked to clear the tears from my eyes.

In the next moment, the mouth was wide open, and the reflective object was hanging halfway out of it. I felt my stomach roll. I barely had time to crawl over to the nearby urinal before I began to retch; who . . . who would do this? Who would have to stomach to do such a thing? No . . . who would be soulless enough to perform something like this? That poor, poor—

I started retching again as I caught sight of the body. There were now eyes, staring at me, wide open. They were a very brilliant, icy blue that pierced my skin, and dug into my organs with a knife and spoon—ready to eat. They moved wildly about, searching everything—but they always came back to me. It was almost as if . . . they were scorning me. They were strangely familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on why.

For a long while, I sat there, frozen with fear, staring at the . . . the _thing._I wanted to work up the courage to ask it something, or just a single word—anything to please to sadistic drive to discover.

"W-who did this to you?"

The words tumbled out of my mouth messily, and more tears arose in my eyes and I fought back another wave of sickness. I watched the thing struggle to move its mouth, and a loud, agonizing groan left it: "-ou' id it! Ou!" The words were too broken apart to understand, and no matter how hard I strained—I couldn't understand.

Suddenly, it lurched forward, and a puddle of blood fell to the floor as its left arm was torn from its body. I wanted to scream—so badly. I just wanted to lie down on the floor and scream until I was deaf and that thing was _gone__—_but I couldn't open my mouth, I was so consumed by my terror that I couldn't make a single sound. "A-a-ah . . ." My voice was choked down by another wave of vomit, and I was retching into the urinal again.

It moans tore through the stagnant air, and its fleshy arm hung, suspended by the barbed wire; I listened for what seemed like hours to the thing's death.

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><p>I awoke groggily, a terrible ache pulsing through my head as I pushed myself up on my elbow; fresh horror flourished in my stomach as I realized: I wasn't <em>in <em>the restroom anymore. The air was no longer stagnant, but icy—it felt like winter was raking its fingers down my spine.

It didn't help that the room was pitch black, disabling any sight. I could hear the horrid sound of rusty metal being dragged against a floor, high-powered fans on full blast, everything was so _loud._

I remembered painfully how afraid I was of the dark—_I __was __going __to __die._

I started to hyperventilate; why had I come here? What would I accomplish in this hell hole? This . . . this was all my dad's fault! If he would've just told me what happened I wouldn't _be_here right now. "You're such a dead beat, dad!" I sobbed into my arm.

"My, my, aren't you a pretty one?"

A scream erupted from my lungs, joining the loud clatters of the room. "No worries, my dear," The voice was gravelly, scraping against my ears like sandpaper. "I'm Dahlia." What felt like a long, gnarly fingernail, raked down the side of my neck. I couldn't find it in my lungs to let out another blood-curdling shriek, so I just laid there—frozen in bloody terror.

"What might be your name?"

I didn't answer. My throat felt clogged with screams and profanity, so polluted that I couldn't let a single word escape my lips.

"I'm _talking _to you!"

'Dahlia' grasped a lock of my hair, and yanked as hard as she could—I yelped. "A-Andrea. B-but I go by Andy." I squeaked.

"_Ahhh~__" _Dahlia moaned. "Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful girl! Just like my little Alessa . . ." How could she even see me in this darkness? She didn't have a flashlight; otherwise I would've spotted the beam of it.

"H-how can you see me?" I asked timidly.

"The darkness is my beam, child." She croaked into my ear. I tried my best to subtly scoot away. "Ah. Andrea, you're frightened of me." I could feel the tips of her gnarly fingernails raking down my arm softly, and her crusty hair brushed against my face each time she swayed.

"I-I'm—I don't—please, just get me _out __of__—" _

"I can't help you, dear Andrea. You have committed your own sin, and the town must make you pay." . . . Sin? I have committed a sin?

Before I could ask, I heard the sound of a metal door slamming against a doorframe. The sound echoed through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

Dahlia had left me completely and utterly confused—not to mention terrified . . .

Why had I come here?


End file.
